


Prayers On Sinful Lips

by Rainbownomja



Series: Writers Month 2019 Prompts [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 14th Century, Aged-Up Character(s), Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Christianity, Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley prays but only for his charges, Death, Death Practices, Death Rituals, Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Corpses, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Im probably playing with a bit too much religious fire, Judaism, M/M, Matter of Life and Death, Multiple Religion & Lore Sources, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Not Beta Read, Plague, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Religion, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-11 14:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20155123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbownomja/pseuds/Rainbownomja
Summary: Crowley hates the 14th century for a reason.Trigger Warnings: Non-violent deaths (Children, Major Character), Graphic Depictions of dying by illness, graphic depictions of illness, blood mention, heavy religion implications.





	Prayers On Sinful Lips

**Author's Note:**

> Writers Month Prompt: Kids
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Death (Children, Major Character), Graphic Depictions of dying by illness, blood mention, heavy religion implications. 
> 
> Note: Some religious practices, like specific prayers in Christianity, have been edited down for length. If something else is really off or bad practice please feel free to contact me. I did my best to research everything beforehand. 
> 
> If anything else should be tagged for trigger warnings also let me know. 
> 
> Also I'm sorry for the heartbreak of this.

There was a reason that Crowley hates the 14th century so much. Aziraphale knew it, because he saw it. He chose to never speak of the evening that solidified what he really knew about Crowley. But even so, he could see its effects on his demon even now. 

On one evening in Bristol, on his way back to the church Aziraphale had taken to working in, he felt it. It was not often that he could feel anything but love, and in these days of pestilence that love tracked back to mothers cradling their dying children, or husbands caring for their wives. But outside one of the small orphanages in the city there was an anguished love that crashed into him so hard he almost lost his footing. 

Inside such places was never comforting. Thin blankets for reed beds on stone floors, handmade stuffed animals hanging together by a thread, and dirt clinging to the faces of much too thin faces. This late at night many of the children were sleeping, even from the doorway Aziraphale could see the sweat beading on their skin, some had blood dripping gently down their cheeks or black bumps on their necks. It was not a surprising sight. 

What was, was the caretaker gliding from bed to bed. A black dress clutched at her frame, and a white headdress brushed against her thin angular face. A handkerchief was pressed to her mouth and nose which brought Aziraphales attention to the round spectacles and bright red braided hair. Crowley replaced rags balanced on childrens foreheads and wiped away the blood from their cracked lips and pale flesh. Her brow was perpetually furrowed as she moved. 

The closer she got to the doorway, the more Aziraphales heart sank. He performed as many miracles as he could for the victims of this disease, but God was not answering his prayers for guidance or assistance. Crowley was not performing any miracles of God's variety, she was giving medical assistance when it couldn't save them. It was all she could give, and she would wait for nobodies order to do it. 

Aziraphale was about to say something, until her hand went white around a blanket. She covered a child’s face with it, his toes poking out from the fraying edges. Gathered the child’s corpse in her arms and hugged him to her chest, her face concealed in a stone expression. Aziraphale ducked away from the door and watched Crowley walk the streets with soft footsteps towards the grave sites outside the city lines. He couldn’t help but follow her. 

The moon was bright enough to see the glisten of dark tears on Crowley’s cheeks as she set the child down into the dirt. She smoothed his hair and removed the blanket from his features. Her fingertips brushed over his cooling skin, and then, she pulled a chain from her pocket. The muscles of her jaw tensed, and a cross came dangling into view. 

“Please take good care of him.” She whispered. “He did nothing wrong, it’s not his fault that he was abandoned to my care. Please don’t punish him.” 

Practiced fingers placed the chain around the boy’s neck. The words that followed were sincere, but broke something inside of Aziraphale all the same. They were the words he’d heard so many families say within the walls of churches. For their children, their spouses, their siblings. A demon was never meant to speak them, and yet she did. 

“Saints of God, come to his aid. Receive his soul and present him unto Her. Give him eternal rest, O Lord. In your mercy and love, blot out the sins he has committed through human weakness. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”

Aziraphale would come to know that Crowley did this for every child that died in his care, or those who happened to be in his path. His prayer would change depending on the primary religion of the region. In 18th century London, he’d place as much excess as he could into the unmarked graves, in hopes that God would understand the child’s lack of proper family to do it for them. In Israel he’d place stones wherever he could to weigh down their mortal souls and prevent it's escape. In France, he would place the bones in a catacomb because of the lack of space. 

Aziraphale knew that he hadn’t needed to do it in over a century. But there they were, at Warlock’s funeral. The boy had lived a good long life, and both of them had done their due diligence in being his godparents after the notacolypse. But it didn’t make losing him any easier. 

They waited at the wake until his family and friends filed out. Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand before letting go. It was like the orphanage in some ways, watching from the farthest wall. Crowley removed his sunglasses and put a hand to the now wrinkled skin of Warlock’s cheek. His eyes remained dry, he knew it’d been coming when he’d visited the boy in the hospital mere weeks ago. But his hand still clenched when he pulled the cross from his pants pocket. This one was different than the others, it was black and gold, and Aziraphale knew that it had engraved on the back, “Under Crowley’s Protection.” Like all the others for their friends that had passed over the years. 

Crowley pressed a kiss to Warlocks forehead, and Aziraphale took his place beside him. The words felt strange on his tongue, and yet he absolved Warlock of any mortal sins, blessed his passage to heaven. And Crowley added that he would come up there if he heard of his mistreatment. 

Then quietly, Zadkiell emerged. Her smile was kind, understanding. She was the one Heaven always sent for one of theirs after the apocalypse that wasn't, she was the one they trusted. Heavens sign of mercy, or perhaps benevolence. Crowley and Aziraphale were not able to see Warlock’s spirit, but they knew by the clasp of Zadkiell’s hand that he was with her. 

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s temple. “Come love, we can’t miss the burial.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. If you enjoyed my work, please leave me a comment and a kudos, I love to hear from y'all!
> 
> If you're interested in following my work including originals follow my tumblr @AvalonPendragonWrites
> 
> See you tomorrow. <3


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